


the right flavor of gatorade

by golden_geese



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: M/M, Sick Fic, and bring it into dennis' room for him to snuggle, and i want dennis to have kitty snuggles :/, anyway here's a cute short piece of fluff for u, but then i realized thats insane, dennis only likes one flavor of gatorade and of course mac knows which flavor it is, i considered litreally having mac find a cat outside, im just brainwashed bc i recently watched the episode with agent jack bauer, mac takes care of dennis, requested by an anon on my tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:24:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_geese/pseuds/golden_geese
Summary: dennis has a fever. mac takes care of him. classic sick fic, tbh.





	the right flavor of gatorade

He doesn’t sleep. It’s too hot, but he hates not having a blanket over him-- he ends up shoving it off for short intervals before putting it back on, madly flailing around to get comfortable. Two a.m., three a.m., four a.m. Sounds like two homeless men are in a yelling match outside. He covers his ears. It does nothing. Of course it does nothing.

He needs water, he thinks idly, but he doesn’t get up to get it. Can’t be bothered. Not like he’s comfortable, but walking sounds like too much of a chore. He wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand, his wrist scraping against two days’ stubble. The feeling of it is almost unbearable-- so much so that he almost gets up and shaves right then and there. But of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t get how Mac and Charlie can stand having hair on their faces. 

One time when they were all drunk off their asses, he asked Charlie how having a beard didn’t bother him-- Charlie had just said that if you have the ability to grow it, why wouldn’t you? He’d said it like any opposition would be totally crazy, so Dennis didn’t bother arguing. Dee brought up some new topic immediately, anyway, so he hadn’t had the chance to.

He hears Charlie’s shrill voice in his head now. It knocks around his mind, banging into corners like a hyper kid in a roller chair. Mingles with some errant background buzzing. The air conditioner? Something outside? The fan he turned on, he realizes. He hates the sound it makes. But it’s not like he can afford to turn it off right now.

His bed is a sweaty miserable hell, but he figures he’s kind of stuck in it. What else is he going to do? Go sleep on the couch? He’d never be able to relax. Not out in the open like that.

The bones in his forehead feel swollen. He wonders if that’s possible, but he prods at them-- and he’s certain it must be possible. It’s the only explanation. He exhales sharply. For some reason, the air through his nose shoots pain behind his ears. He’s dying, he reasons. He’s dying. Maybe he’s already dead. It was a good run. Goodbye, world.

He’s delirious. He drifts in and out of consciousness. Was he not fine yesterday? A little groggy, a little fatigued, sure, but with a few cups of coffee, functional enough to do his job and go through a normal Paddy’s day of scheming and drinking and whatever else. His ears ring now, though. Incessantly. He’s not going to work tomorrow, he decides. He manages to get his phone off the nightstand and send a quick text to Mac letting him know. Feeling charitable, he even types to Mac he can use the Range Rover if he wants, as long as he takes very good care of it. Then, haphazardly, he drops his phone. It’s been ripped off its charger, but Dennis doesn’t care. He flops back against his pillows. Cold, suddenly, somehow-- still sweaty, but cold. What the fuck. The worst of both worlds. He pulls the comforter tight around him, shivering into it-- his teeth clatter, even. 

Freezing, wrapped tight in his bedding, he manages to fall asleep for a little while.

+

“Dennis.”

He doesn’t react, carefully cocooned in his refuge of blanket, carefully positioned in a way that makes his head hurt a tiny bit less, carefully pretending he isn’t conscious and has in fact never been conscious.

“Den-nis,” Mac says, almost singing it. He prods at the blanketed lump Dennis has become.

“Hmm?” Dennis grunts, squeezing his eyes shut tighter.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

Silence. For a second, he thinks Mac left. For another second, he thinks Mac was never there at all and he’s just having auditory hallucinations. He might as well be hallucinating, at this point.

But then he feels Mac tugging on the blankets. Pulling them back enough to reveal Dennis’ face.

“Are you sick, man?”

“Yes.”

“You send me about ten texts, bro. What’s going on?”

Blearily, Dennis forces his eyes open. Too bright. Too much sunlight coming in. Mac is haloed in it, encased in a soft summery glow, looking almost angelic. Dennis almost has to look away immediately, but he manages to maintain eye contact for a few seconds before closing his eyes again. “I sent two.”

“No,” Mac says, shaking his head. “3:36 a.m.: ‘hi mack’--spelled with a ck-- ‘i’m afraid i have become sick and will not go’ next text-- ‘to paddys in the next day’. Next one, around ten minutes later: ‘you can range rover if you treat him good’. Next: ‘you can’. Then the next one, a few minutes later, says ‘baby you can drive my car’. Then the next one, right after, says ‘can bones be swellen?’ Like swollen, but wrong. Then you typed that same thing again twice with typos. Did you think you were googling it or something, dude?”

He has trouble processing what Mac is blathering on about. “Baby you can drive my car,” he mumbles into his pillow. “Isn’t that a song?”

“Yep.”

Dennis doesn’t respond. Forgets Mac is there for a second.

“Can you sit up for a second, man?”

Sit up-- that’s a simple thing to do. Right? That’s something Dennis does all the time. Just sit up. He tries to do it but doesn’t move at all-- realizes he didn’t actually try. He makes a second attempt. Manages to, but slouches forward, a little dizzy.

“Shit, Den, you don’t look good at all,” Mac says, frowning.

“You look ugly too,” Dennis says.

Mac completely ignores it. Holds Dennis’ head up with one hand; presses the other to his forehead. “You’re burning, man.”

He’s being too nice, is all Dennis can think. He’s always too nice in situations like this. If Dennis is drunk. If Dennis is sick. If he’s having a panic attack. If he’s even just a little bit fucking sleepy, Mac is way too nice and gentle. Still, for some reason, he leans against Mac’s hand a little, eyes drooping shut.

“I don’t feel good,” he finally says.

“Yeah, dude, I’m sure you don’t. You’re a million degrees.”

“Kinda think I should probably just die,” he adds, mumbly, definitely sweating against Mac’s hand.

“You’re not gonna do that. You’re gonna drink some water and take some medicine. How ‘bout like, crushed ice? That might make you feel better. And it would hydrate you. Or Gatorade?”

“Dunno.”

Mac strokes his hair back, even though it’s kind of sweaty and gross. Dennis is delirious, feverish, exhausted, sure, but he’s still aware that his hair is sweaty. Mac doesn’t seem to care.

“Is there anything that would make you feel better, man?”

“No,” Dennis says, barely above a whisper. He’s still leaning against Mac’s hand, probably making Mac’s wrist hurt, probably annoying him. 

“Okay,” Mac says. “Well-- I’m gonna let Dee and Charlie and Frank know they’re on their own today. Then I’m gonna go to the store to get some medicine and stuff.”

Dennis doesn’t really get why Dee, Charlie, and Frank would be on their own, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t really care. Would like to go back to sleep.

Starts a little when Mac gently nudges his shoulders back down onto the mattress. “You just sit tight. Relax. I’m going to turn the AC down.”

“Whatever,” Dennis mumbles, wiping at his face. 

“Do you think you’re gonna barf, man? I can find you a trash can or something.”

“Nah,” Dennis answers a few beats late.

“If you’re overheating, maybe don’t wrap yourself in a bunch of blankets, also.”

Dennis doesn’t reply. Mac is bossy. Mac is over-bearing. Mac needs to either stroke his hair some more or leave, and regardless of which one of those things he does, he definitely needs to also shut up already.

Eventually, Mac gets the message. Dennis hears him shutting and locking their door. He exhales hard. Drifts back into whatever feverish stupor he had been enduring before.

+

The loud crinkle of plastic erupts through his ear drums, snapping him awake. He sits up, a bit frantic, breathing heavy, glancing around his room--

“Whoa, sorry, man, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mac says, but Dennis mostly hears the sound of the plastic bag he’s wadding up in his hands. He tosses it in the garbage can by Dennis’ dresser. 

“Stop, pleeeease,” Dennis hears himself whine. He isn’t aware he was talking until it happens.

“Sorry,” Mac says again, sitting on the side of Dennis’ bed. “I got you some stuff.” He twists a pill bottle open, shakes a few into his hands-- they clatter against the plastic. Dennis almost wants to punch Mac in the face for making all this noise, but he wouldn’t be able to summon any useful amount of strength right now, so he doesn’t bother.

“Drink some Gatorade first, then swallow these,” Mac instructs, unscrewing the cap off a bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade-- not blue, like Mac always chooses for himself. Lemon-lime, the only flavor of Gatorade Dennis would ever drink, the only one he doesn’t find obnoxiously sickly-sweet-- of course Mac knows exactly what Dennis wants. He always does. Usually when Dennis remembers how damn well Mac knows him, he panics a little-- doesn’t know if he wants to be known that fully by anyone, even his best friend-- but he’s too sick to care now.

He manages to sit up again. Mac is bossy, Mac is overbearing, Mac is annoying as shit, but Mac is also usually right.

“Good,” he says, placing a firm hand on Dennis’ back. Dennis wants to yank away. He doesn’t. Instead, he accepts the Gatorade and takes a few baby sips before taking the pills and washing them down. He doesn’t bother asking what the pills are. Mac knows this kind of stuff better anyway.

“There we go. That should help. Otherwise-- do you wanna stay in bed, or watch a movie on the couch?”

He imagines himself walking into the living room. Sitting down on their leather couch. Watching people punching and kicking and shooting and yelling. Imagines himself looking this disgusting in the middle of the living room. Imagines Mac talking to him nice more, touching his hair, asking him if he needs anything. It’s almost too unpalatable to imagine. He also kind of wants it, though. Almost lets himself admit that silently. Doesn’t quite.

“Bed,” he says.

“Okay. Can you sit up for a while and drink more Gatorade, though?”

He scoots back against the headboard, realizing he isn’t even wearing a shirt anymore, somehow-- whatever. Just boxers it is. He takes another sip of Gatorade to appease Mac before leaning back against the smushed pillows.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Dennis doesn’t remember. He tries to think back for a moment, but his mind swirls away, giving up on his behalf.

“I know you didn’t eat dinner last night,” Mac continues when Dennis fails to reply. “You should eat something. Anything sound good?”

“Not really,” Dennis says, feeling maybe five percent more clear-headed now that he’s upright and drinking liquids. 

“How about an apple with peanut butter?”

Usually a favorite snack of theirs. Dennis imagines the crunch sound apples make, though, and shakes his head.

“Soup? Toast? Peaches?”

“Peaches,” he agrees. Sick person food makes him feel pretty pathetic, but he can’t stand the thought of slurping or crunching right now and he certainly doesn’t want anything hot.

“Good,” Mac says, relief clear in his voice. 

(Dennis wonders why the fuck he always cares so much.)

(Knows nobody else would ever care about him like that, though, not even his twin sister or fake dad.)

“I’ll go get you some,” Mac adds, standing up and heading for the door. 

“Thanks,” Dennis says quietly. But Mac is already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was requested by an anon-- i do fic requests daily, you can be next!! golden-geese.tumblr.com


End file.
